


Memories Like Photographs

by samidha



Series: Photographs 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2018-12-01 15:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11488932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/pseuds/samidha
Summary: A 6.11 coda in 3 parts. This is part 1.





	Memories Like Photographs

Sam slept for three solid days.

Out in the lot, Dean cleaned the car, vacuuming every surface and changing the oil, packing and repacking the trunk, aligning the tires. By the third day he was jumpy and aching for the road, guilt coursing through him for the time he spent outside of the panic room while Sam slept on in the threadbare bed leftover from the time he spent detoxing there.

Sam slept as if the bed was sent from heaven itself, soft satisfied murmurs rising out of his dreams the only proof Dean could muster that this was real sleep and his brother would rise out of it if he would just bide his time and wait.

He cooked too, real food--soup from the random collection of vegetables and spices in Bobby’s kitchen, and oven-baked mac and cheese, and sloppy joes. He carefully spooned a third of every meal into tupperware and set the portions aside for Sam. His brother would wake up, and he would be starving, and he would be there with bells on--prepared.

Mostly, he waited.

He waited and told himself it was enough, that he was on the precipice of Sam’s return. Because it was Sam, he told himself, one hundred percent. It had to be Sam coming back to him. He had thought of dragging Bobby’s old air mattress down into the depths of the basement, but discarded the idea right away. Whatever was happening to his brother, he wouldn’t make it worse. He slept upstairs on the couch, wrapped tight in his own memories. He let his eyes close only when he literally couldn’t keep them open a second longer, letting dreams overtake him only in answer to his exhaustion.

_Alastair, dressed in white leather, a sea of black smoke curling around his face, forming dark snake-like shapes that flashed with bright lightning where his hands should be--sometimes were. Smoke pooled around his legs, but nothing touched the gleaming white that covered the bulk of his form._

The better to bleed you in, _he whispered. He took Dean’s wrist, yanked him forward possessively and held him in place. With his other hand he expertly pulled each of Dean’s nails free from their beds and watched the blood well up from all five fingers before he wiped the sticky mess into the blinding white of his top._

 __I’m going to enjoy myself today _, Alastair said._ Going to enjoy both of you.

_He tried to yank his hand away but the demon tightened his grip, suddenly breaking every bone under his grasp._

Over-bright sunshine greeted him as he yanked himself from the dreamscape, a promise of beautiful blue skies, but he was only filled with dread, his insides coated with the darkness of Hell like sludge under his skin, his pulse pumping hard in his throat.

_Fuck you, you goddamn fucker_ , he spat at no one as he scoured his reflection in the mirror over the sink, telling himself he was braced for any sign of the dream-world leaking into reality.

There was nothing in the mirror but his own tired eyes staring back at him.

Caught in a never-ending silent battle against sleep, he spent his time sitting on the edge of Sam’s hard mattress, Reader’s Digest or a book of sudoku open in his lap, mostly just there as something to occupy his hands. He couldn’t think, couldn’t pull his attention away from his brother. He waited through every sigh and shift, searching for any sign of a nightmare, any proof of where Sam had been. As time wore on, he spent more and more of it waiting for the moment when Sam would pull away from the pillow.

On the fourth day, Dean’s attention shifted to the possibility that Sam _wouldn’t_ \-- just-- wouldn’t. He ran up the stairs two at a time and lost it in the half-bathroom right at the top of the stairs.

He burned the fuck out of the beans and franks that night.

Then he went downstairs and shook Sam awake like an asshole. His brother had faced a year of no sleep and he couldn’t keep himself from pulling Sam awake to deal with his own fear.

 _Dean_ , Sam said, yawning, eyes drooping and half-lidded.

_Yeah, Sammy, you okay?_

_Are you?_

_Sure._

And Sam smiled at him, bright as the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and Dean breathed in deep.

His brother settled back into sleep while he ran for the stairs.

*~*~*

 _There was only darkness all around him, but a familiar chuckle wound its way inside and through him as he hung in the absence of light._ Want to see a neat trick, Dean? Ask your brother a question. Ask what year it is. I double dog dare you. _Dean pushed at the air in every direction, pinwheeling his arms, hands curled into fists. Nothingness was all that met his touch._

At dawn on day five, he asked the question, forcing exactly who it had come from far into the back of his mind.

_Hey, Sammy, you gotta wake up now, man. Got a concussion. You know the drill._

Sam rolled over with a groan. _Really?_

_Naw, I just like fuckin’ with you. Okay, here we go. What year is it, Sam?_

_Two-thousand... fi--?_ Sam shook his head. _No. Wait. That’s not... right. I don’t...._ Sam glanced around the room, seeming to take in his surroundings for the first time, and suddenly went completely still. _Uh, Dean? Where the fuck are we?_

_Bobby’s._

_As in... Uncle Bobby? Why? What the hell is this place?_

Dean drew in a breath, hard. _What’s the last thing you remember?_

Sam shrugged in reply, staring at him, like he was drinking in Dean’s features, and he read the answer on Sam’s face: _Not a whole hell of a lot._

Then: _What the hell ...Dean? I promised Jess I’d-- What are you still doing here? Why am I in Bobby’s basement?_

He swallowed back bile. _It’s a safe room_ , he started to say. _We weren’t sure... how you would be when you woke up, so...._

Before he could finish the barest explanation of Sam’s immediate surroundings, his brother’s eyes had slipped closed again and he was snoring.

Dean and the toilet at the top of the stairs were rapidly approaching a first-name basis.

*~*~*

He was going to keep it to himself for as long as he could, weigh his options and think about what this really meant. Maybe Sam was better off. Maybe ignorance could really be bliss. Sam had had enough, he knew. Enough heart-ache, enough grief, enough terror. Maybe Dean could handle this on his own, fueled by his own memories of the last year. Death had made the deal with _him_ , hadn’t he?

Maybe if Sam just didn’t scratch--

Dean turned it over and over in his mind as he worked on a pot of chili. Maybe Bobby wouldn’t ask.

Of course, that idea barely held any water. Bobby looked at him like he could see it all over his face, pointedly handed him a whiskey while the pot simmered on the stove, and it all came tumbling out.

He downed the drink in one gulp and willed his hands not to shake. _Bobby--fuck, I--_

_What happened?_

_Sam's awake. I mean, he was awake._

_And?_

_Bobby, I don't think he remembers anything._

_Well, that’s a relief, son._

_No, I mean like_ anything _, like--what the fuck do I do?_

_I don’t think--_

__But his next thought left him cold, suddenly unable to focus on whatever the man was saying. _Bobby, what if he doesn’t remember me?_

Of course, the old hunter took it in stride. _That seem the case, boy?_

 _Well, he remembers who I_ am. __

_You got to take this slow. You got to let him ask his own questions. He’ll--_

_Keep asking. Yeah, I know._

_Then you know what to do, kid. We’ll fill in the blanks._

_Should we?_

*~*~*

The next day, he thundered down the stairs to find Sam’s bed empty. Calling his name as he walked through the house yielded no results. With his heart hammering in his throat, he set off outside and across the yard and found Sam sitting inside the Impala, fingers pinched around the familiar shape of a Lego.

He rested his hands on the roof and leaned into the driver’s side door. Sam looked up, startled, then knocked on the window. He stepped back from the door and Sam cranked the window down. Sam kept the Lego in his off-hand and searched his brother’s face.

 _I have this one_ , he said, holding up the Lego.

 _I know,_

_But I need the others_ , Sam said.

Dean bit his lip. _Nothing lasts forever_ , Death had said. 

There was no question, no real choice; not in the face of a murderously angry half-being who wore Sam’s body. _Do it_ , he had replied.

But now.... Now he imagined all the pain, the fear, the misery lurking behind cracked drywall, along with every single memory that had made Sam _Sam_ for the past five years. And he had decided this. Well, they said karma was a bitch, didn’t they? 

But was it his or Sam’s?

With considerable effort, he forced himself to meet Sam’s eyes. _I know_.

 _If I can even get them back,_ Sam said.

Dean’s heart sped in his chest and he clung tightly to the tattered shreds of his hope. _You will_ , he said and sighed. _You will, Sammy._

Sam nodded and looked across the junkyard, sinking into silence. Dean followed his line of sight up to the paint-worn house in the distance. _Key of Solomon,_ Sam whispered, like he was looking through the dirty windows and across time. _Right? Dean?_

Dean nodded. _That’s right, kiddo. Two down._

But nothing felt right at all.


End file.
